Something Worth Dying For
by Aimlessly Unknown
Summary: "You're doing this all wrong, Hermione," He told her softly. Deathly Hallows.


George was dragged in, his face smothered in blood, and Molly immediately went to attend to her injured son. They laid him on the couch, Molly dabbing at his face with a cloth – trying to find her son's face underneath all the lifeblood. Soon enough his face was clear and Fred was instantly by his side.

The uninjured Weasley twin grabbed his brother's hand and asked softly – in a small voice that Harry never would associate with Fred Weasley, "How do you feel, Georgie?"

George's fingers groped for the side of his head.

"Saintlike," He murmured.

"What's wrong with him?" Fred croaked, looking terrified; "Is his mind affected?"

"Saintlike," repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother, "You see…I'm holy. _Holey_, Fred, geddit?"

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Colour flooded Fred's pale face.

"Pathetic," He told George, "Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humour before you, you go for _holey_?"

It must have been the stress of nearly being killed but Harry found himself bursting out laughing. His laugh sounded strange to his own ears – had it really been that long since he laughed? To make his laughter foreign and harsh to even his own ears; but nonetheless he was laughing and he didn't plan on stopping any time soon – beside him even Lupin was letting out a soft chuckle; '_Yes_' Harry thought, '_It must be the stress_'.

There was a sharp _crack_ – the sound of someone else Apparating. But along with the _crack_ came a scream, a decidedly horrified scream that shook Harry down to his bones. It sounded like the scream he made when Cedric died. It sounded like the scream a person would make when Death comes to collect them. It sounded like the end.

They all rushed out – all but Fred, Molly, and George – to see Arthur standing in horror, staring at something ahead of him. Ginny let out a cry, rushing forward towards a figure that looked a lot like Kingsley – in fact it was Kingsley. He was standing in his robes and clutching a figure that Harry couldn't see. Hagrid, beside Harry and much taller, let out a wail and met Ginny in a dash towards Kingsley. Harry leaned forward to get a better look at the shape in Kingsley's arms. But Arthur turned to meet him and began pushing him back towards the house.

"Not now, Harry," He told him sharply, "Go back inside and take a rest. We'll handle this."

But Harry, in Arthur's arms, had turned just enough to see a head of bushy brown hair appear in the crowd. Overjoyed to see Hermione was back, and safe, Harry shoved Arthur away gently and ran to grab Hermione. There was nothing he needed more at this moment than a hug from his best female friend.

He had to grapple with the small crowd for a moment before he burst into the center and stopped dead in his tracks. The bushy head was Hermione and she was back. But she wasn't safe. Far from it. She was the figure clutched in Kingsley's arms. Harry stumbled forward, his legs suddenly like lead, and dropped to his knees in front of Shacklebolt. The black man looked at Harry with the most apologetic set of eyes that Harry had ever seen.

The Boy-Who-Lived looked back up at Kingsley with the most devastating kind of helplessness; he extended his arms, silently begging Kingsley to give him Hermione. Shacklebolt put the witch in Harry's arms. Each person looked on, misery etched on each line of their face. Harry held Hermione in his arms, looking down at her in shock.

"You're doing this all wrong, Hermione," He told her softly, "You're supposed to get here safely. You're supposed to hug me. You're not supposed to…"

His voice dissolved into tears as he stared into Hermione's unseeing eyes. He pulled her closer to him and began shaking softly as tears coursed down his face. He didn't intend to cry, he didn't want to cry and let others see him like this, but as time passed and Hermione grew colder and colder he found himself sobbing violently. His entire body shook and trembled as his sobs turned into screams.

"_NO_! BRING HER BACK!" He screamed; his head still buried in Hermione's hair, "_BRING HER BACK_!"

Ginny stepped forward to put her hand on his shoulder but Harry shook her off immediately, recoiling as if she had burned him. He looked at her with dark eyes, as if he didn't know who she was. Instead he just held Hermione closer and cried even more.

How could he go on? How could he go on after losing her? He felt like he was drowning, sinking down, down, down and there was no one to catch him. No one because Hermione was gone now. How could he stop Voldemort without her? Without her brains? Her bookish ways? Her spells? How could he do anything with her? She was his everything; she was what he was fighting for. His Hermione, able to grow old without fear and pain – to become the grandmother she wanted to be. Having three little children, two boys and a girl; he wasn't ashamed to admit that he wanted those children to have green eyes.

Images of a life that could have been, ripped apart and scattered.

"I love you," He told her just as Ron arrived (_screaming, so much screaming, and sadness, all he knew was the sadness, the grief, swallowing him up like an abyss_).

"I love you," He whispered to her body (_pale and cold, pale and broken, cold and gone_).

"I love you," He said as they took her away (_bring her back! give her back to me_!).

"I love you," He sobbed as they put her in a makeshift grave (_a proper burial, that's what she deserves_).

"I love you," He croaked as he left – the last to go. (_but she was the first and irony has never been so cruel_.)

"I love you," He said, and it was the only truth he knew.


End file.
